


The World is not Silenced

by grabmotte



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Buried Alive, Dehydration, Episode Related, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Mild Gore, Pre-Series, The Good Friday Massacre, death of non-major characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written as a fill for a prompt on the anon-meme, now edited and available for your reading pleasure on AO3!</p><p>Original prompt:<br/><i>Five times Treville cradled/held a musketeer in his lap due to injury/illness/exhaustion/etc.</i></p><p>1: D'Artagnan has something to prove, but can't quite remember what.<br/>2: Just a regular siege situation.<br/>3: Porthos' faith is tested when he and Aramis are taken captive.<br/>4: Treville faces his own failure in the snowy alps of Savoy.<br/>5: Athos returns not quite himself from a disastrous mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire

_But what help is there for it! A captain is nothing but a father of a family, charged with even a greater responsibility than the father of an ordinary family._ \- Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers.

* * *

### I

The world was fuzzy and the air was hot and wet. Yet d'Artagnan's throat hurt as if it had been punctured with a thousand needles. It felt parched. His head throbbed as if his skin and bones were a vice squeezing his brain. He blinked, but while he saw colours and light no pictures would form for him. It was as if he looked at the world through a white veil. Or a shroud.

The image made his eyeballs sting and d'Artagnan felt tears form in the corners of his eyes. 

So he closed them. With his injured sight no longer distracting him d'Artagnan became aware of his other senses. 

He lay on the ground – it felt like earth and grass – with his upper body slightly raised onto … something else. He heard voices, a steady murmur, a very familiar voice shouting something, almost barking. He smelled nothing but summer and the sweat that drenched his own clothes tinged with the distinct smell of horse. Had he been riding? 

Now he felt a hand in his hair and another around his shoulders. Someone spoke his name. It was a gruff voice but in it vibrated honest, full concern. The voice spoke to him in a tone that d'Artagnan responded to from the innermost reaches of his self, his own childhood that he had left behind only so recently that it was easy to dream it was not yet past.

It was a tone of voice that d'Artagnan had not heard in a long while. Not since-

"Father?"

D'Artagnan heard a strange sound in return, something between a snort and a sigh that might even have come from different persons. 

"Not quite, I'm afraid" came the response eventually.

D'Artagnan cursed his headache, but, with a sense of foreboding, he managed to pry his eyes open again and finally the darker coloured shapes in his field of vision turned into figures with clear outlines. One figure in particular. A face right above him. 

"Captain?"

"The very same." Treville's lips curled into a grim half-smile that would have made Athos proud.

"He remembers. His head cannot be more confused than usual then." That was clearly Porthos. And indeed, as d'Artagnan shifted his head he saw the big man kneeling next to them, an amused expression on his face.

Next to them? It took a couple of seconds before d'Artagnan's exhausted brain agreed to work overtime and allowed him to put two and two together: his horizontal position, the angle at which people looked down at him, the arm supporting his shoulders. He concluded that he must be lying in Treville's lap.

That thought chased away his headache pretty effectively. 

He considered sitting up but none of his limbs felt like they would support him lifting a blade of grass. 

"What happened?" he asked instead.

"You must have ridden eighty miles in a day to reach us", Porthos began, "changing horses, but with no rest for yourself. You're a fool."

D'Artagnan could hardly believe it, but he assumed it must be true. It would explain why he reeked of horse. And then flashes of the journey came back to him. The dusty road, the relentless sun shining into his eyes, his horse sweating and trembling when he exchanged it for a fresh one at a relay-station for the last time. It had not trembled nearly as much as he had.

"You passed out as soon as your feet touched the ground."

D'Artagnan felt too awed to respond right away. He had done that? And then fainted? The weightless awe he had felt for himself that might have turned into something like pride someday turned into mortification instead. He had fainted in his commanding officer's arms and called him father! What kind of useless idiot was he? 

"In other words", Treville concluded, "you rode like a true musketeer."

D'Artagnan's vision became fuzzy again and his brain turned into wool, but this time it was not from any headache. 

"Where is that wine?" Treville wondered out loud suddenly. "What's taking him so long?"

D'Artagnan did not understand a thing of what was going on, but Porthos raised himself to his feet and began to look about in high alert. There was a throng of people about who kept their distance from them and d'Artagnan remembered as through a fog that he had been looking for the Royal hunting party in order to find Treville.

Either way d'Artagnan was convinced he had earned to rest his eyes again for a moment and be alone with his warm thoughts. It also happened that he remembered something else.

"The message!"

With the same deeply unpleasant urgency that only a nightmare reminding you of tasks left unfinished instils d'Artagnan opened his eyes wide and attempted to sit up again. But the captain stopped him, pressing him down with a gentle but firm hand. Instead of the business-minded, inquisitive look he expected, Treville continued to look at him with a good-natured smile. 

"The message is no doubt of the utmost importance for you to have abused yourself so to deliver it so quickly. But it will wait until you've had a sip of wine. The way you're croaking right now I wouldn't be able to understand it anyway."

D'Artagnan did have to admit that his throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper, and his head was beginning to get woozy again, but the feeling of urgency would not leave him. It fed his headache until he became nauseous. He had to squeeze his eyes shut and only the cool hand on his forehead stopped him from being sick. 

"And here comes Aramis with the wine!"

D'Artagnan felt the cool metal of a cup being pressed against his lips. The sensation was wholly unexpected and shocked him as much as he craved the sweet coolness. Before he realised what he was doing, before he even heard Aramis' gentle voice telling him to open his mouth and swallow, he had captured the metal brim between his lips.

As his thoughts caught up with his actions he feared the wine would make him throw up, but instead the liquid smoothed the abraded landscape of his throat and cooled the heat that had threatened to explode his brains. 

The captain's hand was still at his temple, cooling, calming. Aramis had put a friendly hand on his shoulder, helping him drink. Porthos stood over them, gracefully shielding them from the glaring sun. 

And the terrifying urgency abated along with d'Artagnan's nausea. 

It was hard not to feel patient and complacent in such good care.


	2. Metal

### II

There is nothing they can do but wait. Wait for the heat to retreat. Wait to make the next assault. The siege has been going on for weeks, and it will continue, by command of the king, until either his forces break the fortifications of the city, or the city breaks her attackers on her stone walls.

But right now they are all waiting. 

Treville's thoughts and feet have taken him to where his own musketeers are encamped. Away from the trenches you could almost believe this to be a mere training exercise. You could almost believe that there is no war going on. It is as if the world wills it not to.

It is one of those perfect, hot summer days, accompanied by just the sweetest cooling breezes, on which warring should be the last thing on anyone's mind. The sun is out, the sky blue, and those birds that have not fled from the sounds of cannon fire and gunshots appear to find the heat invigorating rather than stifling, as they take the break in fighting to perform their latest operettas to their hearts' delight. 

And from a different part of the camp carousing voices break the serenity of noontime. 

But the sounds closest to Treville at the moment are far less pleasant or inviting. They are in his mind forever connected with the great art of war. They are the moans and the shouting and the sighs of the wounded. And they are the silence of those who know they are about to become the honoured departed which compresses into a sound of its own.

The man Treville has come to see has been brought in only a couple of hours ago after a failed assault on a breach in the thick, looming walls. 

Some of his foolish comrades carried him back here. Carried him over a field under fire. Carried him through the trenches. Because that is what you do when you are barely twenty years old and your stupid commander calls for a retreat just after you risked your neck to get to that damn wall and your newest friend drops down next to you that very moment because he has a musket ball stuck in his chest. 

They must have seen there was no hope for him. But then, seeing something and believing it are two very different things.

Either way it had made for quite a scene.

As he enters the tent Treville turns to the man who had been operating on the lost soul who has since been moved from the improvised operating table to a heap of blankets on the ground. The patient is lying there stripped down to the waist as his shirt had to be cut away for his rescuers to get at the wound.

The unlucky surgeon greets the captain and shakes his head. "It went in too deep to get it out. You can't even feel it. Even if I could stop the internal bleeding the wound is going to become infected with the ball lodged in there."

Treville simply nods and turns his gaze to the patient.

The young man is conscious of course. 

Or what you call conscious, but is actually far from lucid. For the operation his senses had been numbed with spirits graciously provided by his comrades, but they are never enough to mask the pain completely. And with the right man – or the wrong man – they are wholly inadequate to do anything against the fear. 

And the patient voices this fear not in the moans of those who have accepted their fate and succumb to their pain without attracting much attention to their suffering, but in the low sobs and the occasional shouts of one who has places to go, and girls to kiss and wine to drink. One who now remembers he once had a mother and a father and has retreated to hide behind their legs from the morbid apparition that is shaking the last grains of sand out of the hourglass. 

Two musketeers are sitting at his side. One of them is holding the injured man's hand and both of them wear unreadable expressions. They are his comrades who had carried him back. The two of them look sober if only from grief if the whiff of brandy on their breath as they greet their captain is any clue. 

Meanwhile their wounded friend is anything but sober, off in his fantasy hometown, mumbling to a parent who can't hear him. Treville can only hear snatches of the imaginary conversation. "Sorry" features into it a lot. And negations of "going" and "leaving". And then "love" and "hope" and "pride".

The young man does not have much time left. It is evident by his pallor, by the manner his speech begins to slur and the way his gaze grows less focused. He is bleeding out into his own guts with nothing to quell the sensation but cheap brandy and it will be over quickly now.

His two friends look at their captain both helpless and apologetic and Treville swears that if they are about to apologise for the wounded boy and his confused ramblings he is going to hit them until they lie right next to him. 

"He has only his old father left, sir", offers one of the musketeers haltingly, unsure of what to say but feeling the need to say something, anything, nonetheless. "Talks of him constantly."

The fact that the musketeers take on only the finest and most skilled recruits does not mean they are experienced in all aspects of life. Or death. Right now this lack of experience means these two happen to be overwhelmed with the situation, with the nearness of death. They don't know what to do and they are powerless to comfort their friend, if the injured man is even that much to them.

Treville offers the two of them a chance to leave while he takes over, as he sits at the head of the injured man. But the musketeers refuse to leave their comrade's side, despite their own powerlessness, and Treville feels an all too familiar tenderness towards them, that he must immediately steel himself against, as he reminds himself of what he is about to do.

"It is alright, son", Treville says addressing the injured man as he strokes his brow with a gentle hand. "You did good."

The young man responds almost too quietly to hear and Treville can't tell if it's meant for him or whoever he is talking to in his fantasies. One of the words sounds like "closer" and then, more distinctly, "please". 

Treville draws him closer carefully arranging the boy's upper body in his lap, cradling him.

"You did good, son", he repeats, and the boy gasps. One of his friends looks down, suddenly blinking hard. "You are a fine soldier", Treville continues, "and your father is a proud man to have raised someone as brave as you." 

He leans down to plant a kiss on the dying man's brow. The boy sighs, his lips stretching into a serene smile, and the other musketeer turns away. 

The surgeon has already gone outside and as Treville looks up the tent flap is hanging open, revealing a stretch of clear blue sky. The camp is still out there, its noises and the chirping of those few resilient birds never stopping. 

The world is not silenced, the sun shines on, and the young man is gone.


	3. Earth

### III

Porthos could not breathe. The air was too tick.

It felt so damp and heavy that he believed he would breathe easier if he cut it up with a knife first or drank it with a cup. Nonetheless he forced himself to inhale deeply and immediately threw up, right next to where he sat on the floor in total darkness. 

The torches that had previously shed a little light into the cells were gone. They had expired or their captors had taken them with them. Porthos had not been in a state to notice when it had happened.

He was hot. He was in his shirt-sleeves, having been stripped of his protective leather armour, yet he was uncomfortably hot and the musky quality of the air made him nauseous. Additionally he felt punch-drunk. No, no. He _knew_ he must be punch-drunk, his captors had not held back. 

The beating he had received was the last thing he remembered right before they had thrown him back into this earthy cell. Past events and the nature of his location came back to him only haltingly. They had brought him back here and gone for Aramis instead. And they had not liked Porthos still having had the power and guts in him to shout at them and to describe exactly what he was going to do to them if they did not leave his friend in peace. 

Aramis would certainly scold him for having let his cool slip so easily. A proper soldier would have kept calm. But Porthos had only been wearing this uniform so briefly that he still felt more like a thief and bandit than a musketeer – even though their captors had refused to see this kinship and treated him like a proper king's man instead, particularly with their boots. 

It might be the foul air but Porthos had to laugh weakly. The bandits took him for a musketeer, while most of the musketeers took him for a lowly bandit. Yet their respective disdain of him was much the same.

Aramis was one of the exceptions. 

Aramis, who had called his name as they had dragged him away. 

_Aramis_! 

Suddenly Porthos felt sober. 

"Aramis?"

He called into the darkness, but there was no answer.

Fear formed in the bottom of his stomach, coupling with the nausea that had taken hold of it.

He stood up, rose to his feet – but his feet would not carry him. 

Porthos sank back down, dizzy, and started when his back touched a wall. There was enough room in the cell for him to lie down, and Porthos was a tall man. But in the darkness the walls seemed strangely closer. 

This place had been built during the reign of the last king and while it had not been designed for comfort it had lasted decades. Yet, in the silence he heard something crumble.

He rolled away from the wall and felt the sickness claiming him again. 

As Porthos retched, he wondered whether Captain Treville had played a cruel joke on him by accepting him into the musketeers and sponsoring his lodging and gear until he would be able to pay him back. Perhaps the captain had paid for the entertainment value more than from a conviction that Porthos would turn out to be a model soldier. Porthos certainly did not feel like a sound investment right now, trapped in an underground bunker, too dizzy to even stand up, sitting next to his own vomit. Lost in darkness. 

He forced himself into motion, moving against the air that pressed down on him like water. He had to make sure Aramis was alright. Since for anything else he lacked the balance he crawled on all fours until he knocked against Aramis' cell, until he was close enough to hear if there was someone in there in the darkness with him, breathing. But there was no one there. The other cell was empty, silent. 

Whether this meant that they were still questioning him and simply had not returned him yet, or whether it meant the Unspeakable he had no way of knowing. He did not even know how long Aramis would have been gone by now. Porthos could have been unconscious for minutes or hours. Or perhaps he had never been unconscious at all. Perhaps he had just been leaning against the wall in an endless, circular stupor that resulted not from acute pain so much as from constant aches until something had triggered his brain into thinking again. 

Right now he needed to think about how to escape. Escape in order to find Aramis. Escape before he was crushed by the air that was too heavy to breathe. 

Porthos closed his eyes against the thought. There was nothing to see down here anyway. Not even the darkness closing in on him. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

The problem with these cells was that there was nothing for him to break that mattered. You entered them not through a door, but a hole in the ceiling. And apart from that hole there were no bars to hold you, just baked earth. It reminded Porthos of a witch's cooking pot in one of the few stories he remembered his mother telling him. Stories in which the witches did not cook people in a metal oven, but in holes dug into the clay. Porthos wondered briefly if these clay ovens would at least have smelled cleaner than this particular dirt hole. 

He fought another wave of nausea as he considered what he should do. 

There was the thin wooden plank that separated his part of the cell from Aramis'. Porthos could have easily broken it down had he ever been given the time or chance. He might still be able to, but his arms, aching from the kicks and punches they had sustained protested the thought. What did it matter now anyway? Aramis was not here. 

Aramis was the dearest friend Porthos had made so far and yet he had managed to lose him. What a fantastic musketeer that must make him. What use were his great strength and his supposed thief's cunning if he kept failing all of the people who trusted in him? 

He had to get out and find him! 

He could not bear to acknowledge that he stood no chance of escaping by himself. Standing up alone was cruel torture, but he could not let that stop him. Every time he attempted to reach for the bars in the ceiling dizziness overcame him. Perspiration formed large drops on his face. Again and again he tried to raise himself, digging blunt fingers into the hard, smooth walls. And every time he sank back down again, until his nails were bloody. 

Then, with one Herculean effort he drew himself up, eyes screwed shut against the nausea and the pain, and, grunting from the strain, he touched the metal bars. His numb fingers at first did not realise that he had done it. But then he tried to wrap his hands around the bars. What lay above them scraped the skin off his fingers. 

It was wood so heavy his powerful hands could not move it one inch, as if it had been bolted down. The bars had been covered by a trapdoor. 

Porthos did not panic. He was too tired to panic. He simply let himself slide back down onto the floor. He did not bother opening his eyes again. He would not look at the darkness, at this nothing. He listened to the sound of his own breathing instead and dimly wondered if he truly breathed as shallow as it appeared to him. 

The exertion had turned his nausea into a headache that stabbed into his brain right behind his eyes. All his other aches had turned into plain exhaustion. The pain was dull so long as he did not move, and most importantly did not move his head. 

His captors must have had enough of him. He had been abandoned. They must have decided that one musketeer was enough for questioning and had taken off with Aramis after … after they … 

The thought did not come to him easily in this earthy mound. 

He had been buried.

No wonder the air had grown so foul - This was a tomb.

He might be imagining it. It might be the stale air and his desperation that made him hallucinate. But from the direction of the trapdoor he heard a dull thumping. It sounded like the tread of a foot or the patting of a shovel on earth. The noises a corpse must hear at its funeral. 

Someone was at the trapdoor and it had been covered by earth. 

They had covered him with dirt. 

"You bastards!"

Porthos was not sure but he might have actually shouted that out loud. Perhaps he should abuse them some more, to hasten along his suffocating so he would not have to wait for it.

As if in response the thumping turned into scratching.

Something scraped the wood above him. 

"Porthos!"

Aramis?

"Porthos!"

The voice called again. It was not Aramis but it was no bandit either. It was wholly unexpected, but this voice he knew. 

He gathered what was left of his strength to answer the shout: 

"Captain!"

For a second nothing moved. 

"We're getting you out of there!"

The scraping resumed, and Porthos dared breathe again, carefully, to not become too excited. It was hard to hold back, he was too relieved. 

Then he heard the trapdoor being lifted and the bars removed. Porthos opened his eyes and looked up. 

Treville had knelt down beside the hole holding a torch to better be able to look into the cell. The flickering light hurt Porthos' eyes. He had to close them and concentrate to fight the stab of pain that followed. He almost did not hear what the captain said next.

"Can you climb out of there?"

Porthos tried his arms and legs but after he had so abused them to futilely try and paw at the trapdoor his limbs had stopped obeying him at all. 

"Can't do that, sir. Can't seem to get up."

He was surprised by how thin his voice sounded. His breathing had become even more unsteady.

Porthos was dimly aware of Treville speaking to someone else for a moment, but he preferred focussing his attention on the draught of air greeting him from above. It was not a fresh breeze by any means, but better than what he had had to content with. 

And then suddenly Treville was next to him.

"Are you injured?"

Porthos shook his head as the captain crouched down beside him.

Treville had left the torch burning on the dirt floor above. In the dark Porthos could barely make out his face, but the tone of his voice was enough to betray concern. 

"I'm not sure", he answered. "Don't feel like I broke anything."

Despite his exhaustion, despite the way his body had given up on him Porthos felt his cheeks flush at the realisation that he could claim no more serious injuries than bruises, a headache and bloody fingers. But still he could barely muster the energy to speak, let alone move. 

"You don't sound well at all."

Rationally he knew he should tell his captain how he had been beaten, so he could be taken care of. But his dizziness – and his pride – would not let him. Here was another person he had disappointed. The captain had probably expected this big musketeer to be more of a help during the mission. And now Porthos could not even crawl out of a hole by himself.

How useless he was. Was it any wonder he felt so tired?

A gentle hand touched his face and Porthos forced his eyes open. 

"Porthos? Are you still with me? I need you to stay awake until we've had a look at your head."

He could feel a hand carefully prodding his ribs, while another held his head up.

"Did they kick you?" 

Treville had settled down beside him and drawn him partly onto his lap. This was no time to put on a layer of protective modesty. If Porthos did not play along he might not get out of this after all. He had to trust that his captain would not think any less of him if he proved himself vulnerable now. If he had ever thought highly of Porthos at all, that is. 

No, no, there was no other option. Porthos had to trust that he was not a social experiment to the man, but a soldier.

"They did." He nodded to himself. "That's not… it's not the trouble."

He rested his head against Treville's chest. The words would only come haltingly. He felt so exhausted. He risked another deep breath and swallowed hard. A hand wiped the sweat from his brow. Perhaps he had panicked in the darkness and somehow not noticed? Was that even possible?

"Couldn't breathe right for a while."

Treville was silent but his hold on Porthos tightened. 

"It's alright", the captain said after a moment. "It won't be long now. We will get you out. I am not going to leave you until then, just stay with me."

Porthos understood the command voiced in that last sentence. If not for the human presence and touch Porthos was unsure how much longer he could have resisted succumbing to sleep.

Why did his strength fail him now? When he was almost safe? When he could finally go and find Aramis?

The thought forced some life back into him. He had to find out. He had to know.

"Is Aramis …?" 

A hand moved to the back of his head. Whether to comfort him or to search for an injury he did not know. Fear clawed at his guts again. For a moment Porthos was afraid he might throw up on his commander.

"Aramis is safe. He escaped and told us where to find you." 

Porthos breathed a relieved sigh.

Aramis was safe. 

He had escaped and fulfilled their mission while Porthos had sat in a hole of dirt, needing to be rescued. It certainly was not going to help Porthos in becoming more popular with the rest of the regiment. He felt his innards clamp up again, but not from sickness.

"Don't worry about the bandits either. We took care of them."

Filtered through Porthos' dulled brain and ears the curt statement sounded even steelier than he was used to from the captain. It was strangely comforting. At least the bandits who were responsible for this further humiliation had nothing left to laugh about.

Better return the conversation to a topic they both cared about:

"Is he injured?"

Treville paused as if it took him a moment to understand who Porthos meant.

"Exhausted. A few cuts and bruises. Nothing worse. You will see. But you have to stay awake for me until then."

At least Aramis had not come to any great harm through his failure. 

"He is waiting for you at the garrison." Treville continued and Porthos could have sworn he heard a smile in that response as the captain's tone lightened. "We had to lock him up to stop him from coming back for you. He told us how valiantly you defended him, but I had to insist he stay behind to rest."

Now Porthos could not keep from smiling himself. Aramis was the best thing that could have happened to him. He would buy the man so many drinks once he got back to Paris and his brain stopped feeling like it was doused in brandy. If only he could stay conscious. 

"Apparently you got a couple of impressive punches in", Treville added, "putting about half of them out of order. It helped Aramis get away and us rounding them up."

Porthos could feel a grin tug at his lips.

"Now you're flattering me."

Treville responded in the same light tone:

"Are you insinuating I would lie to you? That's a serious accusation against a commanding officer."

Porthos found it in him to turn serious.

"Never."

This was his captain, who had procured for Porthos his commission, his honour, and this friend whom he worried about so much. His captain who was now cradling him in his lap, making sure the musketeers still had someone to rescue once they had finished above whatever Treville had told them to do. 

His captain did not lie. His captain did not panic. His captain did not give up.

So Porthos would not either.

"Good. And now you need to stop worrying. And that's an order."

Porthos had every intention of obeying, but despite that he felt himself getting sleepy again. Yet this time the sleepiness came without the unease the darkness carried, and without the overwhelming heat of sickness. Still, he knew that he could not go to sleep in the captain's arms now. And Porthos wondered whether instead he should tell Treville about the witches' clay ovens from his mother's stories. And he did. Just to keep awake. Or maybe to prove that he would be alright. Or to give something back.

He had considered whether he should leave out the connection to the cell's walls, in case the thought struck the captain as disturbing as it had appeared to Porthos. But he also did not want Treville to fear his man had completely lost his mind by arbitrarily rambling on about witches. And then, Porthos reminded himself, these kinds of stories were supposed to be disturbing, but that might have been his headache talking. 

In the end, the captain did not seem to mind, listening attentively to Porthos' story until they were interrupted by people thumping and scraping on the floor above. 

"And here come your fellow musketeers. They will get you out."

The scraping around the whole turned into a rustling as something was lowered into the cell. 

Porthos imagined a number of voices encouraging him to "hang in there". Or maybe he didn't. Maybe they were real. 

"Just stay calm. And conscious. And that is an order", Treville said as he removed Porthos from his embrace to help him into the rope harness.

"I know you can do it. I believe in you."

Of course he did. The realisation had finally seeped into his thick, slowly reviving brain. Of course the captain did. He had been the first one to do so in such a long time, the only one before Aramis.

And Porthos would defy death itself before he disappointed either of them.


	4. Wood

### IV

The dark shapes of the bodies stand out sharply against the snowy ground in the harsh light of what is barely yet a spring morning. In March, in the alpine reaches of Savoy the rays of the sun do not reach far enough yet to warm the ground.

Winter still reigns supreme and it has preserved the bodies well, incorporating them into its own immobile domain. 

Seeing how he could not save them the least thing he can do, Treville thinks, is take them home himself. Or at least get them to hallowed soil and away from this cold unforgiving clearing that has become their deathbed. Of course it is impossible to take the corpses back all the way to Paris in their state. The journey is simply too long. 

Even in death twenty-two dead musketeers will never see their home-country again. 

Treville walks among the bodies with the musketeers – living men! – he has brought with him for this task. As he walks he is aware of every step he takes as the crunch of his boots on old snow that has remained undisturbed for days rings obscenely loud in his ears. 

They turn the dead men over whenever necessary so they can see their faces. They are faces they will never be able to forget, but they have to look in order to link warm, living names to the frozen figures. Each name dies as soon as it is spoken, crossed out on a list. 

When they only find twenty bodies Treville orders the musketeers to spread out, to search the perimeter for any signs of survivors. 

He meant to bark the order as usual, to make sure it is heard and obeyed. He is surprised at how quiet it sounds. 

It does not take long until they stumble across the ghoul lurking in the brush. He looks dazed, and his face is frighteningly pale underneath a big, bloody bandage around his head that badly needs changing. 

It is Aramis, and he is still alive. 

He does not respond at all to their calls, and as the musketeers head over to him, the glaze over his eyes turns into something wild. 

He lashes out as they reach him, uncannily silent until a sob escapes him and he stops moving at all. Stops reacting to them, like he does not see them. 

Treville himself moves in to take the man by the shoulders. 

"Enough! Get a hold of yourself, soldier!"

He uses his sharpest tone, honed to cut through the sound of a battlefield, and something of it, if more the sound than actual words, gets through. 

Aramis' gaze clears for a moment, but instead of pulling himself together he folds. He slumps against his captain like a puppet whose strings have been cut and steadily Treville guides them both onto the wet, snowy ground. 

He is frantic for a second that he has lost Aramis as well as he searches for signs of life from the young man. He would deserve it, wouldn't he? Aramis dying of shock in his arms the moment they have begun to hope. Better for Aramis to escape the hell his mind is trapped in swiftly, painlessly. Better for Treville to lose them all to pay for his betrayal rather than to keep one who might even one day absolve him of his sins. 

But the young man has only fainted and Treville starts to breathe again. 

He just sits there for a long moment, cradling Aramis' still form. Aramis looks serene in his arms, cold and vulnerable. Treville can't tell if the man actually feels cold, but he himself is numb from the chill in the spring air and the death his own blind obedience has wrought around them. He is reluctant to move, reluctant to hope, for fear of upsetting some kind of balance he does not himself understand - be it nature, God or fate – that allowed him to become a traitor to his own men, but left him Aramis. 

Eventually he motions to the musketeer standing at his side and orders the man to get Aramis wrapped up in a couple of cloaks and onto their wagon. And he rises back to his feet. The moment is gone. The serenity in the midst of death is gone. And it is time to take action.

Aramis is going to live. Treville swears he will make sure of it. He will draw Aramis back from whatever hell is holding him. They both are going to live.


	5. Water

### V

Treville had interviewed each survivor individually, had heard and taken down their account of events, and taken a trip to the palace and back to report the loss of all despatches in person. All in all a couple of hours had passed since that motley band of beaten up musketeers had stumbled into his courtyard. A more elaborate written report of the mission might even now be waiting on his desk, but still Treville could not stop himself from taking a detour from his way back to the garrison. There was still a lot of work to be done, a lot of explaining, and a lot of enquiring to do in order to find out just what had gone wrong. In summary, there were still a lot of busy hours and days ahead before Treville would even be thinking of putting this case to rest.

Yet, there was something more urgent for him to do, something that had kept biting at the back of his mind like a thirsty flea. 

Treville sighed, watching his breath condense in the chilly February air, then stepped up to the house. 

He did not usually make a habit of visiting his musketeers at home, but this was a special case: Yes, he owed it to the dead men to find out what had occurred to allow a simple quest of fetching despatches to turn into a fatal trap, if only to prevent it from happening again. But he also owed a different duty to the living which appeared to him the more urgent matter.

Treville had never been to Athos' lodgings before and his first impressions of the building's exterior did not instil him with any confidence about what he might find inside. The only thing positive he could think to say of the mouldy looking house was that it was close to the musketeers' garrison. As he approached the entrance a piece of lime paint detached itself from the flaky wall and soared onto the dirty road. 

A young, mousy looking girl answered the door, and once inside Treville found himself confronted by Athos' landlady: a small, grey-haired woman who rather rudely demanded what he was thinking by disturbing hard-working people's well-deserved rest at suppertime. All the while she graced him with a disapproving look that served less to see what was in front of her than to make the most sociable visitor feel as uncomfortable and insignificant as possible.

Treville distinctly felt the sting of injured pride as the woman apparently had no idea who he was. 

Her expression changed the moment he introduced himself properly. She took another – alert – look at his clothing, taking in his whole appearance this time, then immediately moved to announce him to her lodger. Skirts rustling she disappeared from view through a doorway to the left. 

While Treville listened to her footsteps retreat he took note of the kitchen he had been left standing in. He decided it looked no more impressive than the front had. Its shabbiness was depressing, especially for a gentleman of Athos' means. Even had Athos initially not expected to be accepted into the musketeers right away when he had first arrived in Paris a couple of months ago, he should have been able to afford something better equipped and less dark. Treville wondered why Athos had not moved to some place that at least got cleaned more regularly: Any surfaces not stained with soot shone with grease. 

But for some reason Athos had not bothered. 

Treville got the first hint that something other than the level of the landlady's housekeeping skills was worrisome when he heard the good woman repeatedly knock for about a minute and half without an answer. A few moments later the house was shaken by a scream. 

One hand on the hilt of his sword Treville burst through the doorway the little woman had taken and followed her into Athos' apartment.

Once he stepped into the room he realised that whatever he might have expected to await him in there certainly was not this!

His first thought was that Athos was dead. The man lay facedown on the floor, his legs entangled in a sheet as if he had fallen out of bed. He lay motionless, senseless, and deaf to his landlady's cries. He must have been pretty drunk to crawl into his bed still fully dressed and with his boots on.

Treville rushed over to his side to check if he was still breathing and had barely taken a step into the room before he stumbled over what turned out to be a stack of empty wine bottles. As he took a moment to regain his balance he spared the other contents of the sparsely furnished room a look - including the other bottle of alcohol that rested against the bed frame. It was open, but more upright than its owner and thus still containing liquid. One whiff told anybody who cared that it was potent stuff. 

He turned Athos onto his side perhaps more roughly than necessary and wondered why. Treville had given the man leave and thought it well deserved after what had happened. And while not on duty Athos could do what he wanted in his own home and on his own time. So what right did Treville rationally have to feel angry? But he knew the feeling ran deeper than anger over the king losing a talented soldier. The musketeers were no ordinary regiment and Treville was not your average captain. Moreover, this was not a case of a soldier rendering himself unfit for duty. 

This was a man rendering himself unfit for anything but the morgue. 

Turning Athos over Treville winced at how pale the man looked. And even more curiously his clothes felt damp. It had been hours, and still—!

He brushed the back of his fingers against Athos' cheek and flinched at the coolness of his skin. 

Hesitating for a split-second only he held his hand out closely in front of Athos face and could not suppress a sigh of relief when he felt the light draught of Athos' breath. 

Treville's gaze was drawn back to the half-empty bottle at the edge of his field of vision. 

_Damn the man! This was not the way to get warm!_

Athos might smell of alcohol, but the sour odour of vomit was absent, and Treville doubted now his drinking was the reason he had passed out – at least not the sole reason. Exhaustion and cold could knock out any man as surely as the strongest liquor, especially when a wet body finally came to rest after physical exertion.

 _And maybe he had not passed out at all_. 

Athos groaned almost inaudibly as Treville moved to pull him against him, halfway onto his lap. If Athos was that out of it he would be safer sitting up. Just in case he did have to throw up eventually. 

"Athos?" Treville cupped the young man's face in one hand and tried to catch his attention. What he would have to do would be much easier with Athos' cooperation. 

Athos responded with a puzzled groan. His eyelids fluttered open then shut again. Stupor was not a good sign, but at least he was conscious even if he came to his senses only slowly. 

Treville had seen what hypothermia could do to a person when he had been a lieutenant campaigning in the Piemont Alps. Now this was a somewhat rundown, not particularly well-heated apartment, but fortunately no snowy mountain pass. Still Athos' condition was worrisome and alcohol did not help. On the contrary it was much more likely to seal an already cold man's fate. Ideally what Athos needed was a hot bath instead, and definitely a change of clothes. He prayed that this place featured at least something resembling a tub. 

He looked back to the door to see if the landlady was still within ear-shot, and indeed the woman remained standing in the doorway with an unreadable expression on her face. 

Disregarding the fact that they were in her home Treville ordered her to prepare a hot bath. To her credit she obeyed without complaint. He wanted to ask her to fetch a doctor as well, but he shuddered to consider the kind of quack a woman living this cheap might hire. Once the bath was prepared he would send the maid to get his own physician. It appeared to him the most sensible decision: He knew it would be a while before any useful amount of water would be warm enough, but to wait for any kind of doctor to arrive before acting could cost Athos dearly.

His first action should be to rid the musketeer of his damp clothes and possibly see if he could recruit Athos' assistance. The calm detachedness he had acquired through years of soldiering helped keeping Treville focused on the task at hand, but part of him still wondered at Athos not having bothered to change. It had been hours. 

In their reports the other survivors – the only two of them – had been no little awed at Athos' daring to jump into the river trying to save their mission objective and get back the despatches so vital to king and country. Athos had killed his man, but the body and consequently the despatches had been lost to the current, and Athos had ended up drenched to the bone. In the middle of February. What had he been thinking? 

Well the answer was obvious: he had not thought at all. Fighting at this level was instinctual. You did not think; you relied on experience and reflexes. If you stopped to think you were lost.

The right question was, what had he been thinking afterwards, when he had not bothered putting on dry clothes or taking off his boots?

Finding said clothes tempered with as Treville unbuttoned his jacket finally prompted Athos to relearn speech: 

"Captain Treville?" His voice sounded thick and he somehow managed to cough and groan at the same time. 

"Are you going to be sick?" 

Again Athos responded with a groan so Treville thought it prudent to ask: "Do you have a bucket?"

Athos shook his head weakly. 

"No. Not sick." He scrunched up his face into a frown. Visibly rolling the words around in his mouth first he eventually managed to form a complete sentence: "What are you doing here?"

_What are you doing here!_

Treville had half a mind to drop Athos onto the floor, but he reminded himself that the man was most likely not thinking clearly in his condition. 

"I am saving your life. Apparently something you could not care less about. Now move your arm so I can take off this doublet."

"Why?"

"It's wet! You're going to catch your death! Now move!"

"No… why?" Athos was going to say something else but Treville watched as he swallowed the words on his tongue. 

Again Treville reminded himself that Athos must be experiencing the effects of the damp cold and the alcohol he had consumed and opted to ignore the icy feeling that took hold in his stomach at that repeated question. Instead he lifted Athos' torso to try and rid him of his doublet while the musketeer groggily moved to bat away his hands.

"I can do this myself. You don't have to…" Even through the slight slur in his speech Athos sounded self-conscious, but still no colour showed on his cheeks to accompany his embarrassment.

Seeing how stiff and uncontrolled Athos' motions were Treville chose to ignore this plea as well and repeated his order for Athos to move his arm instead so he could shrug out of his doublet. 

"Yes, sir!" Athos obeyed but his tone bordered on insubordination. Accordingly Treville felt not too guilt about exercising little tenderness while divesting Athos of the rest of his clothing. 

They shared an awkward moment when Athos insisted on removing his belt on his own, but his fingers were obviously too numb to handle the buckles. 

The clammy fabric clung to his skin as they shoved down his trousers in a joint effort and yet Athos mumbled "I don't feel cold". 

_And that is part of the problem, isn't it?_

"Believe me, you are. About as chilled as the cardinal's soul." 

The fact that Athos did not respond at all to that statement was cause for more worry. 

Briefly Treville wondered what the landlady had been preparing for supper. Was it too much to hope for hot soup?

Eventually they succeeded in ridding Athos of his damp clothes, even of the hideously sodden boots that stuck to Athos' feet. They both had to exert themselves quite a bit before the soaked leather finally released Athos with a wet sound. The sight of his pale, soggy feet was accordingly unpleasant.

Treville considered wrapping Athos in his blanket to rub him down, but as they might need the blanket later he had a better idea: 

"Do you have a towel?"

Athos motioned towards a low closet that looked as if it had been sublet to a family of woodworms generations ago. Treville had hardly gotten up before Athos lay down on the floor again. He frowned, but at least it did not take him long to find what he was looking for once he had managed to open the half-eaten doors without breaking them off. He pulled out a set of neatly folded towels that looked clean and serviceable, which was surprising considering the state of the place they rested in. 

He draped one long towel over Athos' prone torso and used the other to try and rub some life back into blue feet. He just had to hope that Athos didn't contrive to choke on his own vomit in the meantime. As soon as Treville saw him moving his toes which were no doubt prickling from the revived circulation he moved back to the young man's head again, shrugged out of his jerkin until he was left in his shirtsleeves and pulled Athos against his chest to make him sit up. 

Ignoring his small protests he wrapped another towel around Athos' head like a turban and used the larger one to rub down his chest and arms. Athos eventually succumbed to his fate quietly. When he was satisfied with the results and it appeared to him that the bluish tinge had disappeared from his skin, Treville reached for the blanket that was still half draped over the bed to wrap around Athos. Even though it was of a rather unattractive patchy brown colour it looked reasonably soft and warm – like the most sensible object in the room in fact. But the motion caused Athos to slide back onto the floor. 

"It would be of great help if you could remain upright by yourself" Treville said as he pulled the blanket over the musketeer's shoulders and hugged him close. 

He had not expected him to respond at all, groggy as he had taken him to be. 

"What is the point?"

But Athos sounded more sober than he had any right to be. 

Maybe Treville truly had overestimated how much the man had drunk after falling into his bed still drenched from the river. His breath did not smell as strongly as it could and who knew how long that stack of empty bottles had been sitting upon the floorboards? He took in the rest of the room, the sparse furniture, the lack of personal items that might have spoken of a life Athos had led before taking up the king's service. 

_He should have come sooner._

Treville had wanted to talk to Athos then and there, before recommending (i.e. ordering) him to take a couple of day's leave. But seeing how Athos had shivered he had sent him home instead. It had been obvious that leave alone would not cure him but allowing him to head home for a change of clothes had seemed more important than anything else at the time. 

As soon as he had found a free minute to spare Treville had set out to find him. Athos had gone through an experience every leader ran the danger of facing someday and Treville had felt the need to make sure Athos would be able to cope. 

It appeared he had misjudged the progress Athos had made since first joining up. 

Treville remembered how Athos had first come to him, only a few months ago: talented with sword and dagger, a decent shot, a good rider, and educated in all the matters that a young gentleman should be acquainted with. It made him officer material. And Athos had been all too eager to make use of his skills in battle – all too eager to fall onto his own sword. 

It was easy to see that Athos' swordsmanship was unmatched, but unfortunately so was his thirst for self-destruction.

Treville had almost denied him the commission because of the recklessness the young man had seemed to exude from every pore. What a waste that would have been. But then a captain had to keep in mind the safety of all his men. A safety that was not to be risked for one talented if lost young soul who lacked an occupation to distract him from his own shadow. 

If he had not been certain he could temper this destructive urge he would have turned Athos away, and up until now he had thought he had succeeded: He had seen how the sense of community, the camaraderie between the men had instilled in Athos a sense of responsibility to look after himself if only to be able to look after his fellows once the need arose. Treville would not have put him in charge of anything had it been otherwise, let alone a mission as important as the one he had just returned from. On the contrary, from the day he had first laid eyes on him he had known Athos was made of the stuff that distinguished a leader. And today Athos had risen to the challenge: He had fought a losing battle and still managed to defend his brothers in arms amiably. 

Yet, now that it was over Athos had elected to do this to himself. 

_He should have come sooner_.

"Now you're trying to kill yourself?" The heated emotion he had first felt at finding Athos passed out on his bedroom floor returned mingled with disappointment and showed in the unsteadiness of his voice. 

Athos appeared taken aback at the question. 

"No." But his denial sounded oddly flat, as if he weren't quite convinced himself. 

"Were you truly so disappointed that you had not died as well?"

Athos trembled, perhaps not from the cold, but Treville was far from done: 

"Your comrades were wrong to defend you. I wouldn't blame them for changing their mind once they know what a death-seeker you are. Who'd trust a person to watch their back that invites Death with open arms?"

"You know nothing about me!"

The accusatory tone had roused Athos' temperament. Good. Let him prove whether there was still a person inside that frozen hulk.

"You don't know what I did before—!"

"So you'd prefer me to leave so you can expire in peace? Is this how you want it to be, Athos? The sum of your days?"

It was hard to force the anger out of his voice as he spoke:

"I don't care about any of your past failures. What matters to me is what you do while you're wearing this uniform! The moment you joined my musketeers you became my business."

Should they be having this conversation while he was holding Athos in his lap? Perhaps not, but it was too late now. Treville would not let go of Athos and watch him slump back into his stupor, and Athos had something to say to him:

"You won't have to deal with any of that anymore. I resign. Keep my pay." 

He sounded more defiant than defeated and Treville was not going to let him off the hook so easily. 

"Sound like it's for the best. Better you abandon your brothers now than on the field."

This time Athos actively tried to shake off Treville's touch. As his legs were still too wobbly to allow him to get onto his feet and as he was further hampered by being cocooned in his ugly blanket he just managed to land himself on the floor. Treville let him and only saw to it that he did not throw off the blanket. 

"I never abandoned anyone!" The words stumbled out of his mouth no longer sluggish from cold and drink, but frenzied, rushing into each other. "I'd never do that to them!"

He grew quieter for a second, wouldn't meat his captain's eye while he gathered his blanket around his trembling shoulders. "But they deserve better."

"What about today then? Did you even try to avoid enemy contact, or were you spoiling for a fight? Dying to throw yourself onto your sword?"

Athos looked up. There was a wet sheen to his eyes, like fine frost. He swallowed noticeably but Treville continued before Athos could start: 

"First you lead them into an ambush, and then you plan to disappear on them. A fine friend you are."

"I had to make a decision!" Athos' voice was far from slurring now. Hes eyes were wide as he faced Treville, almost pleading. "There was no way we were going to outrun them. The horses were dead on their feet."

"So what did you do?"

"I handed the despatches to Saint-Just and told him to make a run for it. The others and I were going to make a stand and distract them."

Treville knew all of this of course. It had been in the reports he had polished up for the palace. 

"It didn't work", he finished for Athos. 

The young musketeer seemed to collapse at these words. There was a fevered shine to Athos' gaze before he lowered his head again. Cautiously Treville drew closer to offer support and this time Athos did not draw away. 

He leaned against his captain, weak and tired. 

"I'm sorry."

"Did you do any less than you could have done?"

"No, I—"

"Then don't be."

"I failed in my mission! People are dead because of me!" 

Treville sighed into Athos' hair.

"These things happen. No one is blaming you for it."

"What good am I if—"

"What good is asking? You didn't fail. You prevented valuable documents from falling into the wrong hands and you managed to bring two of your men back alive on top of it. Not everyone could have done that." 

The way Athos moved his head resting against Treville's shoulder indicated that he was going to continue to protest; so Treville continued talking: 

"And more than that: the two of them are full of praise for you." 

"I take it they still trust me then?" Something like a smile tugged at Athos' lips, but the heaviness of his voice revealed the eternal cynic. 

"No one is blaming you." Treville moved an arm across Athos' back both for comfort and to keep him warm. "The one thing you have yet to learn is not to blame yourself for doing your job."

Athos relaxed under the touch. "It's not easy."

"It's necessary; unless you'd still prefer to resign."

To their joint relief Athos shook his head. 

"I'd prefer to stay." His voice grew thicker again and he coughed. "It's only here that…" Athos did not finish his sentence but he did not need to. It was obvious to anyone who knew him that the musketeers provided him with something that he knew he had lacked – mainly fellow tortured souls.

"Good. We'd hate to lose you." 

Treville knew that one conversation was hardly likely to chase away the doubts forever, but at least it was a start. He sighed as he felt the weight of the memories that accompanied the winter chill outside seep in through the walls.

"You know you are going to make many more decisions that will end up killing people. You can never forget that their lives are in your hands when you make your decision but you can't keep carrying all of their ghosts on your back forever. They are soldiers. They know the risks as well as you do. Expecting you to never lead them into battle would be absurd. It is your duty to ensure these battles serve a purpose."

Athos did not respond he just sighed.

"Do you still want this responsibility?"

"Yes." Athos' voice, marked by cold, spirits or grief, was low but firm. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess, it's just … the first time."

"I understand", Treville said. And he did. 

They sat in silence for a moment or two in which Athos breathed harshly, wiped at his eyes, while his shoulders shook. Treville did nothing to disturb him, apart from leaving his arm where it was and not budging an inch. He did not think it prudent to watch Athos too closely during these moments and instead let his thoughts follow the wintry memories called upon by weather and company to a snowy clearing: The sounds of footsteps on the frozen ground echoed loudly in the wintry silence as heavy boots crushed the ice underneath. There was blood on the ground, barely covered by the virgin snow. 

Perhaps, one day he was going to have to take his own advice.

Eventually Athos' breathing normalised and he dried his face on the soft blanket. They were still sitting when finally the landlady appeared to tell them the bath had been prepared. In a joint effort they somehow managed to pull Athos onto his feet, and while he supported the young musketeer all the way to the bathtub Treville decided he had to reconsider his opinion of the little woman: She even had thought to bring Athos something to drink. 

After Treville finally left he headed back to the garrison deep in thought. 

What now? He did not like the idea of leaving Athos to himself, in the care of no one but his landlady. True, he trusted her more now than when he had first entered her house, but he knew he would be able to focus on his work more easily once Athos was under additional surveillance. Yet, he could not postpone returning to his office any longer. 

He needed someone to check on him: someone reliable and ideally perceptive enough to look after him for a couple of hours in a brotherly fashion. 

As he stepped into the courtyard his eyes settled on the other two survivors, lounging around the staircase even though, like Athos, he had sent them home. Treville briefly wondered what they had been up to after delivering their report and slinking off to God-knows-where before calling out to them: 

"Aramis! Porthos!"

The two of them looked up and immediately took their hats in hands, trying their best to give the impression that they had done nothing to deserve the attention of their strict commander. They only succeeded in making themselves look more suspicious.

"What are you two doing back here?"

It was Aramis who answered in his usual sparkly, charming tone that hardly hinted at the ordeal the both of them had suffered earlier that same day. 

"We are looking for Athos, Captain."

Yes. They would do well. They would do very well.


End file.
